No, seriously; our car was totaled back in November, so we “broke down” and saddled up with a used Honda Odyssey. I’m not even going to lie — I loved it in spite of myself. The space! The lack of noise! THE FREAKING DVD PLAYER. Omigosh, y’all. The DVD player. Which we only used, like, 45% of the time since my darling oldest child has been on-again, off-again grounded from screens since…. well, November. But, still. . . . when we were able to turn that sucker on, it was like heaven. Static-y heaven on those long road trips that are always supposed to be fun but turn in to a giant train wreck. You know the kind. You load the kids up, every body is good and ready to go, and 2 hours and 40 pee breaks later, you wish you’d have just said, “Screw it,” and gone to Chuck E. Cheese, instead.

Anyway. 2016 will forevermore be known in the Paul house as “The Year of the Car”. You guys may recall that my Mazda bit the dust back in May. Fast forward to the Jeep, which ran like a champ (because, Jeep) until a girl in a Corolla hit me at highway speed, thereby totaling car numero dos. We found the Honda for exactly what the Jeep totaled for and, because I’m painfully cheap and didn’t want to deal with another bill, we sprung for her. We bought it “as is” which, in hindsight, had red flags all over the place. But our rental had run out and we needed wheels, so it seemed like a godsend at the time. And really, I suppose it was. It got us through until tax season and now I’m back to my roots in a Mazda 5, which I love. It’s still a minivan of sorts, but much smaller and gets better gas mileage, so I’m all about it. There’s no DVD player and not as much space, but it’s still a third row and it doesn’t break down due to rain (you read that right. RAIN). I don’t know about y’all, but I’ll take lack of entertainment for my kids over getting pulverized in rush hour traffic any day.

My kids think I’m Betty Badass since I’m on car number four in less than a year (nevermind that they’re older models, paid off, and total mom-wagons). The faculty at my kids’ school probably think I’m Pot-Dealer Paige because… come on. Four vehicles, less than a year (nevermind that they’re older models, paid off, and total mom-wagons). I think I’ve been jinxed. Four cars in less than a year. Do y’all know how much TT&L I’ve paid? I’m over it. All I can say is the new Mazda, affectionately known as, “Please Little Red Don’t Die On Me”, will be treated with kid gloves and better last until my kids need cars of their own. I’m just not high maintenance enough to enjoy perpetual car shopping. I swear, if she dies it might break me. I’m not above putting my fat ass on a bicycle, y’all. Not. Above. It.

All too often these days, our educators are ignored, bullied, and passed over. They are the forgotten link in our kids’ success stories. To be in such full view, they are certainly kept behind the scenes. I really, really hate that.

All my life, I grew up loving school (with a few years exceptions, of course). All my life, I had amazing teachers. I also had amazing parents who never blamed my teachers for my own shortcomings, and they never let me not accept my own blame. My parents, my very first teachers, taught me to love and respect the people who would shape my mind for many years to come. My aunt, a teacher for many years, unknowingly taught me to admire and listen to those who had lived a life before my own. As is such, I have the utmost respect for quality education and the fine women (and men!) who provide it to my own little ones.

As most of you know, Gabe has had some learning struggles along his admittedly short school path. I am glad to say that we’ve had some, for lack of a better term, crappy teachers. I am thankful for them, because those women gave me the sight to see what AMAZING teachers he has also been exposed to. Women (and men!) who have fought tooth and nail for my stubborn, hard-learning little guy. They have loved and fussed, held up and nailed down my Gabe in a way that I so appreciate. Their sticktoitiveness and gumption has made more of a difference in Gabe’s life (and that of my own!) than I’m afraid they’ll never fully know.

I have grown to not only respect these people, but also treasure them. They are special people with some of the most enlightened souls I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. In addition to their own very busy, hectic lives, they choose to not only take on my, what some would call “hard” (hell, what I would sometimes call hard), kiddo with gusto that I cannot fathom. And not just mine, but countless others. Today, in the world we live in, so many parents place blame where blame is not called for. Our teachers catch the brunt of lazy parenting and, by due course, ill-behaved children. It is unfair, hard work. But they attend to it with grace and their own brand of stubbornness and make their way home with heads, and red pens, held high.

A simple thank you seems insufficient, but for now that is all I have. So thank you, ladies. Thank you so much for reaching out to my boy. Thank you for your time, your patience, your encouragement, and most of all, your care. From the bottom of my heart, I am eternally grateful for all you have done.

To all you other teachers out there whom we’ve not yet met, apologies and thanks in advance. I am sure we will encounter our fair share of even more mediocre individuals attempting to pass as teachers, but I do so look forward to meeting you nurturers. The soul seekers. The up-lifting, no-nonsense, believe in you-ers. The mind shapers. The EDUCATORS.

Like this:

This year, not surprisingly, “humanity” has left me gobsmacked with their typical, annual worsening of entitlement and general disdain. Happy holidays? Not even if you get ’em on sale. Traffic was horrific; people even worse. Anger? Hostility? Rage? Seems that’s what retailers really stocked up on this year. And it got to me. And I let it get to me. Having left my regular job in September in an effort to get our business off the ground, we’ve hit a few snags. We’re alright, just tired. Thankfully, all seems to have worked out for the best (as it almost always does) and our worries seemed to be for nothing. Nevertheless, it’s been hard to get “festive”. The abundance of bad attitudes didn’t help at all.

I needed to get in the “spirit”. Not just for me –but for my kids. For my husband. For people around me. For my soul. I love Christmas. Always have. Being out of the mood just doesn’t suit me this time of year — especially since I’ve been known to listen to (and belt out) Christmas songs in June. Yes, I’m that jerk that everyone knows. “Hi, my name is Sarah and I love Christmas carols.”

A few weeks back, I went to church with my parents instead of where we had been going. It just happened to be the easiest thing to do since Gabe had spent the night with them. I’d just bring him home with me after services, easy peasy. I went figuring I wouldn’t be altogether impressed. Granted, I didn’t go in critiquing. But I didn’t figure I’d be moved, either. The service was great — the pastor’s message was on point. Can I say that about a preacher’s sermon? Seems off, doesn’t it? Anyway, it was. On point. But a song was played that I’ve heard every single year since I was pregnant with Gabe. And every single year, I need to hear it. And every year, without fail, there is a new message provided. This year was no different. Oddly enough, it’s a thought that I’ve had — albeit, fleeting. You’ve probably heard the song. I’ve posted it below, just in case.

A baby changes everything. There is so much obvious in that lyric. I mean, obviously… babies change everything. Every aspect of life. But you know how some things are so obvious you seem to overlook them? I do that with my boys from time to time. Not overlooking them, but overlooking the obvious. I’ve often wondered how Mary had to have felt when she carried her baby. How she might have wanted to distance herself — knowing what was to come — and yet, also wanting to cling tightly to the little life that would eventually save the world. A world that would not do likewise for her infant; our Savior.

I wonder how she got through her days watching him grow; watching him learn. How she had to have stayed busy to not think about what was to come at a time she had not been given. And yet…. how much pride would she have felt? What a bittersweet life she had to have lived after her baby was born. How strange it had to have felt raising her sacrifice. Would she have felt resentment for the world — or the greatest depth of pity?

I, myself, can hardly bear to think of it. Raising my own two boys who, though far from perfect, are absolute perfection for my life… I cannot imagine the pain and the pride she had to have experienced for the rest of her days. How bizarre it had to have felt; how speechless it might have rendered her. How humbling.

Thankfully, our debt has already been paid. Thankfully, I will never have to know the immense emotional struggle she had to have faced. I will never have to give up my boys for a world that would not do the same. But I can imagine it. I can feel it. And to say I’m grateful is the understatement of a lifetime. A baby changes everything, indeed. My babies changed my everything. Her baby changed my everything. I may get flustered with preparations and I may swear at a box or two, but my Spirit glows. So no matter the “bah humbug” attitude of others; no matter if my dressing is dry or if my wrapping skills need serious adjusting. My Christmas was not wrapped in bows; it was wrapped in swaddling cloth. I have found Christmas. Or did Christmas find me?

I’ve learned quite a lot over the past six years as a parent. I’ve learned what to do and infinitely more what not to do. Kids are often times the best teachers to have; from our kids, we learn how to live and how to love; how to be humble and how to be proud; how to keep it together when we ultimately just need to lose our shit. You get the idea. As a mom of two mad-crazy little guys, ages 2 and 6, I have begun to really lose my shit lately. I’m not as cool and calm as I always thought I’d have been; my 12 year old self figured I’d be a hip, laid-back mom. BAHAHAHAHA. These days, I’m so high-strung that a Stradivarius would be envious. Thankfully, I have realized this and I am trying to find the humor in things that would normally set me off like a Roman Candle. Because of my new-found work-in-progress, I have begun writing down little snippets of what parenting is to me. Now, you may find yourself jumping on my bandwagon, and you may leave here today thinking I’m a total fruitcake (and… you’d be right). Nevertheless, parenting is, like I said before, a life lesson for us all. And so, for those of us who live in the real world of make-believe and near parenting-induced alcoholism, who also do not have the benefit of expensive live-in nannies, I present to you my list of “parenting is…”. I hope it at the very least brings you a chuckle if not a Katniss-esque salute of sympathy. I’ll be starting my list with one point that ventures towards the macabre — but I know y’all will feel me on this…

Parenting is: plotting out for weeks on end the murder of America’s favorite fictitious character, Mickey freaking Mouse. Call it hateful, throw around the term “kill-joy”…. but that mouse is a parent’s nightmare on crack. Now, did I personally always feel so violently towards the peppy, over-the-top excited little dude? Nope. There was a time I, too, was rather fond of Ears. But Mickey Mouse Clubhouse has rendered me irritated, at best, with it’s unrealistic expectations of childhood behavior. Not to mention, he’s Connor’s idol and a small mutiny occurs in our home every time that damn mouse is refused. My mind is leaning towards a Saw like end to the Mouse. I’m thinking a backwards mousetrap. Too much? Oh, well.

Parenting is: wanting to get housework done, but the toddler is sleeping on the couch, and if parenting has taught you ANYTHING its, “Don’t wake the bear.” Hello, Netflix marathon.

Parenting is: stress eating cheap pizza because “For the love of God and my waistline, quit stalling and do your math facts!” Move over, skinny jeans; the muumuu is strong with this one.

Parenting is: hovering around the fridge, spoon in hand, avoiding hard stares and denying any knowledge about the banana pudding on the second shelf (behind the Country Crock, adjacent to the Dijon) and arguing that, “No! I’m not going to eat anything, promise! DON’T JUDGE ME, TODDLER!”

Parenting is: a conundrum. On the one hand, parents love to their kiddos sing pretty much anything. On the other hand, hearing the chorus of any song over and over on continuous loop because that’s literally the only part of the song they know makes people want to pull their hair out and throw darts at the walls. See also: Mickey Mouse Clubhouse freaking theme song. Scooby Doo’s theme is equally annoyingly endearing.

Parenting is: telling the kids to shake it off after pretty much any injury, knowing full well that if it were YOU, you’d either A) swear at the air until the “ouchie” goes away, B) cry like your two year old who has been refused Micka Mouf, or C) stress eat anything that doesn’t move.

Parenting is: repeating yourself calmly a thousand times over, in the most serene of voices, until something in you snaps and suddenly your neighbors all think you’re a metal-band groupie and, “Oh my gawsh, she ate a bat’s ear off, I swear!”

Parenting is: hearing yourself say things — things that should never be said — and not knowing which direction the day will go afterward. Case in point: I always say weird, off-the-wall things to my kids. They do weird, off-the-wall things, after-all, and well… shit happens. But the other day, I said within a five minute span, “QUIT LICKING THE DOG!”, “No, we cannot sell your brother. No, I do not care that you need more Legos.”, “Santa does not bring presents to little boys who pull on their private area.”, “Please quit putting your butt on the window and put on some pants.”, “No, wiping your ass is not one of my favorite things to do.” “No, I do not think I look like Velma.”, “We do not point guns at the mail lady.”, “No, I do not think she looks like Velma.”, “No, I will not smell your finger.” Five minutes. No lie. I’ve thought about bringing my kids in for testing, but I’m afraid I’ll never get them back from testing.

Parenting is: s-p-e-l-l-i-n-g e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g… until your six year old breaks down that impenetrable code (damnit, ELA). Then, parenting becomes speaking in movie references to anyone who will understand because said six year old is all, “I ain’t droppin’ no eaves.”

Parenting is: attempting to reason with a screaming, tantrum-throwing toddler, only to realize that it would be easier to do and sing the Hokey Pokey backwards and in Pig Latin. It would also be more enjoyable.

Parenting is: looking feverishly at that untouched bottle of wine in your fridge and managing, somehow, to save it for the weekend even when it’s been a Monday of a Wednesday.

Parenting is: ending most days with someone in tears, someone else covered in Nesquick, and you on the verge of nervous breakdown… but, one way or another, finding the humor in it all, odds be damned.

Parenting is: being loved and getting to love. It is special. It’s a gift. It’s humbling. It’s pride-bearing.

Parenting is: an experience. Several experiences, really. Ones that should be spent with your kids, not at your wit’s end. It’s hard, it’s tiring, it can be a nightmare; but it’s worth it. They’re worth it. And so are you, momma and/or poppa bear.

This Thanksgiving, I’m especially thankful for my kids. I am proud of who they are — even if they drive me positively berserk. They are my reasons to be thankful for anything; I am blessed beyond measure. And tired. I am so, so tired. Time for the daily battle with Mickey Mouse. I’ll give you a hint who wins: it’s not me.

Thanksgiving is nearly here, y’all. “But it’s three weeks away!”, you say. Y’all don’t even know. Thanksgiving is THE holiday meal of the year in my family. We do it big and we do it good. Even Christmas dinner, which is usually gumbo or maybe a ham, can’t light a candle to Turkey day for us; it’s simply tradition. It’s a tradition I’m glad to pass down to and share with my little ones. Our counter tops are loaded down with fried turkey, spiral ham, praline topped sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, and cranberry sauce, among other things. We are Thanksgiving traditionalists — not much passes the threshold that is wild and wacky. That said, there have naturally been some exceptions: pumpkin pie cheesecake, pecan pie cheesecake, sausage balls and even a brisket (or two) has been known to make a rare guest appearance every now and then. But there are some things I’m relieved to say will likely NEVER make way to our Thanksgiving smorgasbord — things that I’ve only ever seen before in nightmares and brief cameos in Ye Olde Medieval Festivals. Here are just a few that made my stomach absolutely churn:

Deep Fried Stuffing on a Stick. There is so much wrong with this, I don’t even know where to begin. Just knowing there are people who have fed this to their kids makes me feel less guilty about “Chicken Nugget Tuesdays” at our house. Not much less guilty, but I’ll take what I can get.

Turkey Cake. No, this isn’t a Cake Wars confection that is actually a cake cleverly disguised as holiday fowl. No, no. This is essentially a meatloaf (only… with turkey) “frosted” with mashed potatoes and other varied toppings — depending on the “chef”. Really, it’s a festive shepherd’s pie. Thanks, but I left school lunch back in 2006 where it belongs.

Regular holiday food — Fear Factor style. Picture this: the scene is perfect. Dad’s carving the turkey, mom has made her famous Pecan Pie (puh-kahn.. not PEE-can), and grandma is passing around the croissants. Every one is settling down to dive in and — wait, what’s that? Is that… a mealworm?! Yep. From my native state of Louisiana, comes “buggy” food. The folks down at the Audubon Insectarium in NOLA topped their turkey day noms off with things of the protein-rich variety — and we’re not talking vitamin supplements. No worries; most of us southerners can smack down on a holiday meal, mealworm and cricket free.

Gravy soda. Once again, I have no words. All I can imagine is someone opening jarred gravy, pouring in some soda water, and going to town. Kill me now.

Tofurkey. This poor food item (if you could call it that) has been the butt of everyone’s Thanksgiving day joke since… well, since someone thought it was a good idea and served it to their family. I would love to have been a fly on the wall for that Thanksgiving dinner nightmare: “‘Let’s have Thanksgiving with the cousins’, you said. ‘It will be fun’, you said. I told you we should have gone to the Chinese buffet!” Ah, sweet memories.

Turbaconucken. This just sounds like congestive heart failure waiting to happen. And perhaps it could be if it is paired with Deep Fried Stuffing. On a stick. Basically, this is one of those Turducken things… but wrapped in bacon. I’m all about bacon. And turkey. And chicken. Nooot so much duck, admittedly. But turbackonucken? If I have a hard time saying it, I don’t think I want to eat it.

Jarred gravy and canned cranberry sauce. As a southern girl, this hurts me to my very core. Two of the most important facets of “the dinner” itself, and you can’t take the time to make it? Tsk, tsk.

Gluten-free rolls. I understand people who have an allergy to gluten or just do not or cannot eat it for health purposes. That said, I’d cut off my left, big toe for gluten. Actually, that really explains a lot about where I carry all my weight. But damnit, what good is a roll without gluten? It’s carb blasphemy! I just can’t even.

Turdunkin. Listen, y’all. I love turkey. And I freaking love donuts (as per the size of my backside). And while some breakfast foods may pair well with some not-so breakfast foods (check you out, chicken and waffles!), some things absolutely do not hold the same reputation. Enter: Turdunken. Basically, this is a turkey basted in Dunkin Donuts’ Coolattas and stuffed with, get this, Dunkin Donuts. I have a legitimately hard time believing this could possibly taste worth a damn. What a waste of good donuts.

And last but not least, Twinkie Stuffing. Is there really an explanation necessary for this particular dish? No, I think we can all gather what kind of food mutiny is going down, here.

I’m sure there are a few here and there that I missed, but these dishes managed to wrangle their way into my mind and burn themselves into the deepest recesses of my memory. That said, I am going to go over my menu for, oh, the millionth time. Any strange family holiday dishes you’d like to share? I’d love to know what the “black sheep” of your Thanksgiving menu may be.

Ah, exhibitionism: it ain’t for all of us. My two-year old, however, has certainly taken a shine to it lately. Usually for no rhyme or reason at all, at any time of day, I can find Connor butt-naked, riding some kind of toy or, like the other day, attacking his completely grossed out older brother, with nary a care in the world. Take the other day, for example: he had been playing in his room when the doorbell rang. It didn’t occur to me then (though, perhaps, it should have) to check him out before he came bounding into the living room STARK FREAKING NAKED while I signed for a package from UPS. I don’t know who was more mortified — me, or the UPS guy. But Connor was delighted to show off his current lifestyle choice and showed zero signs of self-consciousness.

This is a relatively new thing to Con. Not too long ago, he hated being naked. HATED. IT. Like, “I will put on every ounce of anyone else’s clothing if I am not supplied with my own” hatred. I’m not sure when the change occurred, but this new thing… I’m not feeling it. Thankfully, he’s a little fella; I can still fit him in 24 month onesies without them looking all kinds of ridiculous. I’ve thought and thought about what could possibly have triggered the new-found love for streaking; here’s what I’ve come up with.

Luke Bryan. No, I’m not saying Connor is stripping for Luke Bryan. Keep your imagination in check, partner. But the other day Mr. Bryan’s song Strip it Down came on, and while LB usually makes my kid cry (not even kidding — I always have to change the station in the car his songs come on), this time Connor stripped it down. Subliminal message? God, I hope not.

Potty training. Rather, the ongoing joke in this house that we call “potty training”. For Connor, this simply means he sheds every piece of fabric and discards his diaper or PullUp accordingly. But instead of running to the potty, he goes Marathon Man on me and runs, loose as a goose, through the house. Kid’s pretty fast when he’s not suited up.

He’s Tarzan incarnate. He’s always had an affinity for the outdoors; perhaps he’s just trying to live out a past life? We live in rural Louisiana; I can’t have little nude dudes running around my house. They have laws for that around here, for crying out loud.

He really enjoys grossing out our semi-modest six year old. I really think I’ve hit on something here. Connor comes bolting around a corner like a skinned squirrel and Gabe just dies. Con thinks Gabe’s revolted cries for help is hilarious and climbs all over him like a spider monkey. I’ll admit — it’s pretty funny. Kind of contradicts my “keep to your personal space” rule, though.

He’s a two-year old boy who has recently found every guy’s favorite body part and is innocently living the dream. This is probably the real reason, although not as fun to think about like my Tarzan theory. Gabe and Connor are night and day about EVERYTHING, and it oddly didn’t occur to me that they could be polar opposites on the subject of “modesty” (whatever “modesty” means in the light of little boys, anyway). Gabe likes to be COVERED — even when he sleeps. Connor, on the other hand, would be happy if I’d let him roam Target in the buff. Obviously, that ain’t gonna happen. I may as well let well-enough alone, though, and take solace in the fact that, for now, his little tush is still cute and said tush can fit into snap-able onesies. Praise Jesus! Hopefully this little phase of his won’t last too much longer… our UPS guy still can’t look me in the eye and with Christmas around the corner this could pose a problem.

Like this:

It’s my favorite time of year again, y’all: fall. Autumn. Harvest… whatever you like to call it. I love the word “autumn”, myself, but living in a small-ish town in Louisiana, I get looked at funny when I toss that word around. So I simply leave it at “fall” and go on with my days loving the cool(er) weather and, per the stereotype, pumpkin spice everything. I loved pumpkin spice before it was trendy, so I make no apologies for the warmth and goodness of a good pumpkin-y, nutmeg-y latte.

Anyway, I’ve always found that fall brings more changes than just crisp, cool air and falling, beautifully colored leaves; it always brings life changes — at least for me it does. As if on pattern or cue, fall delivers to me different, sometimes intimidating, but always good change. I seldom know what I or my family is facing, but I can usually rest-assured life will find its way of sorting itself out. Fall has been closely followed by the birth of my children and brought with it the marriage of me and my husband. It has been with me when I’ve faced new jobs and their challenges; it has even carried with it new friendships that I am blessed to still have today. This year, it has given us the loss of my job. As of last Wednesday, I am officially at SAHM status. Things came up and it was made plainly evident that I needed to be home. I. Am. TERRIFIED.

I have never not worked. I have held at least one job (sometimes two or three!) since I could legally work and drive. I had three jobs during my pregnancy with Gabe (talk about exhausting — working three jobs pregnant [two of which I stayed on my feet and even climbed ladders, etc.]), and stayed with my office job when I went back to school for my marketing degree (for which I still have not obtained). I have always liked to stay busy and am not averse to working my tail off. So this new stay-at-home-mom thing… it’s flooring me. I love my boys, but I’ve never felt like I’m “stay at home” material. I am gruff and grumpy… total momma bear. I’ve never, ever been super good with kids and it’s always seemed easier for me to go to work and let them go to school or daycare for our “space”. Admittedly, I hated only being with them from 5-7 every morning and 5-bedtime during our evenings and it really was vital at the time that both my husband and myself work; in today’s economy, it really does take two incomes unless you’re a Kardashian. Well, I don’t know about you, but my hidden talent ain’t balancing a cup on my behind, so there goes that idea.

Since I’ve been “home”, Connor and I have not been “home” for entire day… at all. It may sound silly, but I get the housework done quickly and we bolt. I’m too antsy to be hemmed in all day, so off we go. What have we gotten done? A little grocery shopping, a few errands here and there, and a lot of mall walking. I’m pathetic. I’m going to have to give it up eventually, I know. But Ev can tell you — I don’t even do good staying home on the weekends. I don’t have to spend a dime, but I absolutely do not want to be locked in a house all day.

But I have decided to make the best of it. Starting Monday, Connor and I are going to do things at home. He’s two, so potty training needs to take priority. I forgot how hard that is to do in town (been four years since I’ve had a two year old, y’all) and he’s showing signs of being ready. So I suppose we’re going to batten down the hatches and poop-proof the house until he gets the hang of it. Tonight, we’re making homemade pizza and painting pumpkins (Gabe wants to paint his like Luigi from Super Mario®) after homework makes its painstaking existence known. I have decided that just because I’m not used to being a SAHM, that it isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I will make the most of it even if it means I pull my hair out and look like Britney version 2007. Afterall, fall has always brought with it changes for me — and how often has this season given me bad luck? Fingers crossed for me, y’all. Can you add SAHM to a résumé? I already feel like a poorly informed, unpaid intern. Sigh.

I have been “mothering” for a little over six years, now. Actually, if you want to be real about it, I’ve been “momma bearin’ it” for a little over six years. I’ve done a lot of things I had previously said I’d never do. I’ve said a lot of things I never thought I’d say — or have to say (one of my favorites: “Please stop trying to lick your brother’s eyeball”). I’ve slept more than I thought I would have, and I’ve also slept much less than is probably necessary to function. I’ve figured out that I’ll cover pretty much anything in ketchup if it’ll get my kids to eat and that I may be an enabler to my two-year old’s fruit snack addiction. That said, I have learned quite a lot living with little boys. I’ve Google’d, Bing’d, Wikipedia’d, and WebMd’d pretty much everything there is to Google, Bing, Wikipedia, and WebMd regarding kids (and on how to maintain my sanity sans booze).

I posted a status the other day on my page about needing to learn to check the inside of my shoes before putting them on thanks to having Things 1 & 2 running around. That got me to thinking, “What all have I learned since I’ve been a boy mom?”, which inspired this post. This is the kind place my brain goes to around 10 o’clock every night instead of closing up shop for the day. But it’s to your benefit this morning that my poor old brain is overactive, because here are my top ten things I’ve learned while living with my little monsters boys:

It is absolutely vital that one check one’s shoes before putting them on. It is in my house, anyway. I’ve killed many a toe thanks to Lego blocks and even small action figures finding their way to the deep, dark recesses of my footwear. I check those bad boys with a flash light and, some days, even something pointy so I don’t have to sacrifice my fingers. My kids think they have jokes these days and I’m just waiting to “find” a frog or something in there.

No matter how long and hard you preach, socks and underwear will likely never make it to the washer. Shirts, pants, and even a stray tennis shoe will at least get to the floor in front of the washer. I’ve washed plenty of change and even a wallet or two (oops…). But I have to check under beds and other pieces of furniture for undergarments. Connor, the two-year old, has taken to throwing his socks away these days, so I also raid the trash. It’s pretty fantastic.

Your kids will never need you for anything of dire importance once your buttocks are firmly planted on the toilet. They will, however, need you to open a jar of pickles (why are you even in the kitchen?!), to ask about the theory of relativity (relatively speaking), and “why is brother wearing a blue shirt, because wasn’t he in green earlier?” (<— that happened).

Sleep is a distant memory that I’ve grown to resent. A night without the kids? Sleep! Not. even. close. Housework? Yep. Binge Netflixing? Naturally. Simply sitting in the quiet? Sure. But sleep? Not I. I don’t sleep when my kids are home, and I physically cannot sleep if they’re gone for the night. I’ve learned that I’m an utter weirdo, in that respect.

“Batman and Mario are most certainly real and how dare you question their existence?!” That conversation not only took place, but I felt sure that Gabe was looking at resumes for other mothers on the slick afterward. I’ve learned that Mario, Batman, and even the Ninja Freaking Turtles are very real to little boys and damnit, do not question it until they’re at least in high school. And even then… sore subject.

Mickey Mouse Clubhouse will buy you a good five minutes worth of a shower. That’s probably it, though, unless your kids zombie out to TV. My oldest is guilty of that, but the little one will notice five minutes in that he’s not glued to my ass.

Little boys are rough and sturdy, but only if you let them be that way. When Gabe was very little (about Con’s age), I watched his every move like a hawk. Someone called me out on it and I backed off slightly. Now that we have Connor? Psh. Unless there is a tremendous amount of blood or bones jutting out, our motto is, “Shake it off.” Insurance premiums are expensive enough without tacking on minor cut and bobo costs.

Little guys will always need cuddles even if they’re embarrassed to admit it. Gabe has turned a page in his cuddle bear life; he no longer appreciates it when I give him a kiss (or a hug!) goodbye at daycare. I’m lucky to get a fist bump. But, if I play my cards right and no one is looking, he hugs me tight just as I’m walking out the door. Only for a second, though — “the guys are looking, mom.” Connor is only cuddly on his terms… he’s catlike, in that sense. A grouchy little turd who wants cuddles one minute and will claw your eyes out the next if he thinks you’re enjoying getting loves. I’ve learned to be as nonchalant as possible with that kid in regards to “love time”.

There is nothing little dudes won’t take apart and try to put back together. As is the case, my house looks like a replica set of “Sanford and Sons” on the regular. We’re working on it, but some days it doesn’t even pay to act like I care.

And finally, I’ve learned that little boys are tough and rowdy and put up a great “he-man” face, but they are pretty insecure little creatures, too. Most days I tire quickly of being constantly called upon and tugged at… but I know one day it’ll all be long gone and I’ll miss it. Funny thing, missing what you had once it’s gone. So this evening I think we’ll curl up on the couch once homework, bath time, and supper is done. We’ll have popcorn and watch Hocus Pocus and I’ll live in the moment while it’s here. And I’ll probably wonder, most likely around 10 o’clock, what else they’ll teach me. And I’ll wish I knew where the time goes and why, when it does, does it go so quickly.

We had our first family vacation on Labor Day weekend. We’ve taken little trips here and there, but we’ve never done “vacay”. There was always something: kids too little, weather’s bad, “lets STAYcation instead”…. you know the drill. Anyhow, we took the kids to Pensacola for the weekend and they LOVED it. I loved it. And don’t say anything, but no matter how much he denies it, the hubs had fun, too.

I’m not even going to lie: I was plumb nervous about our first (and possibly last) family vacation. The kids are still small and beaches are notoriously crowded and what if they gripe about the sand in their buttcracks, etc. But the beaches weren’t that crowded and the kids didn’t gripe about the sand (much). We went to Fort Pickens, which Gabe fell in love with since he’s all about soldiers these days, and Connor is my true-blue beach bum. He had so much fun “swimming” in the ocean with Ev and building sandcastles with Bubba. I’m not big on beaches (GASP!), but I’m a sucker for seeing my kids let loose and have a good time. We all thoroughly enjoyed ourselves but by the time Sunday rolled around we were ready to be back home to wash off the sand and sleep in our own beds.

The trip to Pensacola was a doozy. The kids were fantastic (Connor slept most of the way there), but the traffic through Baton Rouge was horrendous. About 9 hours into what was supposed to be a five hour trip, the kids started getting restless. Luckily, I’d brought some of their favorite reads and, so we wouldn’t have to stop at every rest stop for snacks, snack kits. The little kits were simple but proved to be SUPER fab to have once we were all in the truck together for 10+ hours.

I just used Ziploc mini containers and picked up the kids’ snack faves from Target and packed them into a carry-on. Best thing I’ve ever done in my whole life, probably. Those of you who have hongry kids know what I mean and that it’s no exaggeration. You go prepared, or you pretty much commit parental suicide.

We finally made it to Florida and I swear to you I’ve never been so grateful to see that state line. I’m twenty-seven years old and I felt like an antsy toddler come 10:30 Friday evening. I thought I was going to kill Evan when he made an “emergency” pit stop for freaking Taco Bell. But we made it to the hotel and wasted no time resting up for the next day. Saturday came super early (Connor was up and at ’em by 6 o’clock), so we got dressed, ate some breakfast, and headed for the beach.

We spent a good part of the day beachin’ and sight seeing, then returned to the hotel with two EXTREMELY tired little guys for some much-needed naps. Let me take a minute to say just how proud I am of the boys’ behavior. I know I said earlier there was some nervousness, but my goodness they were fantastic. They both kept their hands to themselves and didn’t touch anything they weren’t supposed to. Gabe even asked some really great questions about the forts and batteries at Fort Pickens. To say I was, and still am, impressed is an understatement. Good to know we can take them places without fear of embarrassment or having to fork over hundreds of dollars in the event of a disaster (i.e.: breaking a priceless artifact, etc.). Thumbs up and gold stars from this momma!

We spent most of Sunday at the beach and perusing the streets of downtown Pensacola. Our checkout time was at eleven, but we left a bit earlier so we could maybe catch some sights on the way home and beat the Labor Day traffic back to Cenla. The drive home was a bit more trying for the four of us who, by that point, were sick to death of being in such close proximity to one another. We all went crazy at some point or another but managed to squeeze in one more stop in Abita Springs. Enter the Abita Mystery House. Gabe LOVED it, Connor wasn’t all that impressed, and my nerd husband enjoyed it more than he thought he would. It was neat, but I was more into being able to stretch my legs one last time before we hit Alexandria. Entry into the Mystery House is only $3 per person (Con got in for free) and there really are some crazy-neat things to see in there. One of the funniest things to me was when Gabe saw a typewriter and said, “Mom… how do you see what you type?!” Oh, Lawd. If he only knew.

We had such a fun time with each other and, aside from a few minor frustrations, made some really great memories with the kids. I can’t wait for our next big adventure. Thanks for having us, Pensacola! Until next time.

Every year, I try my best to write about my personal struggle with postpartum depression. It was such a huge part in the turning of chapters in my life, and I feel obligated to share with other mommas who may be experiencing, or could experience, the same hell I lived in for several months of my life. PPD is left largely undiscussed. No one really talks about the post-natal depression because it still widely viewed as “taboo” or a “non-issue”. Hell, the “baby blues” are barely mentioned. That fact has left me gobsmacked ever since Gabe’s arrival six years ago. In fact, the longer I think about, the more ludicrous it’s absence in every-day talk seems to me.

Even knowing my family’s history of varied mental illnesses and depression, my OB/GYN at the time didn’t even warn me of the possibility that I might develop the problem. I was very young — twenty at the time — and might have heard of PPD in passing, but never at length, and never from the one person who could have filled me in. I don’t blame him in particular — I blame society, mostly. A society that is in no way, shape, or form idyllic has these contorted views of what the “ideal” mother should be. I’m telling you right now — the society that runs the world today should have no say in what an “ideal” mother is. Plain and simple.

But backing off blame, I’m here to urge anyone who might have this problem or knows someone who might have this problem to seek help — NOW. Asking for help is not embarrassing. It does not make you a bad mother. It does not take away from your parenting abilities. IGNORING the problem, however, will absolutely emphasize the problem not only for the mother, but also for the people that surround her — including her child(ren).

I have found that opening up a bit about my own conflict with PPD has helped a few women seek help and counsel regarding their own struggles. It is still somewhat difficult for me to come forward with my own story, but it is something I am more than willing to do to spare anyone of the terror that went on inside of my own head. So, here goes:

My Gabe was born on August 20th, 2009. As luck would have it, my heart truly began beating on that day. I, however, wouldn’t have that feeling of pride and warmth for several months after the fact. All my life I’ve been told of these miraculous stories of “adoration at first sight” upon a mother holding her baby for the very first time. That this feeling of pure bliss just soaks down into very fiber of their being without question and without exception. A love that, as I’ve said before, is nearly nauseating. I didn’t have those feelings. In fact, I was very nearly numb to everything — except terror and the unknown. The unknown of what I was experiencing; the surprising terror of being petrified — of an infant. I couldn’t wrap my head around it and I was certain no one else would be able to, either. So I kept quiet. I kept quiet for nearly a year.

I’ll go to grave believing that a plethora of factors contributed to my depression; family mental illness, being overweight and in an unhappy relationship, working three jobs from sun-up to sun-down… I believe all these things contributed to my issues. Add to that a rash of unstable post-natal hormones? I was just waiting for someone to put me in a padded cell. My attitude towards everyone, not just myself, was deplorable. I couldn’t not cry — any and everything made me bawl. I was living with my parents at the time and refused to be left alone with my own child — I was out of control on a downward spiral. I needed help and I knew it. But, due to my fear and hardheadedness, I decided to wait. I waited almost too long.

For months, I would climb into my grandpa’s old leather chair when my parents would settle down for the night. So every night from 10:30 to 4:30 the next morning, I would sit there, in my “safe place” — forcing myself to stay awake. I feared that if I slept, I would hurt Gabe. He slept soundly every night in my arms — never suspecting; trusting me fully. He didn’t know that the person he trusted the most had no faith whatsoever in herself. One day after a long night, I couldn’t tell if I was awake or dreaming. Awful thoughts and fears poured into my mind as though someone had removed the top portion of my head only to fill it with fright. Horrified and feeling monstrous, I finally sought help. Adding to the fear of losing my mind, was the new thought that I could feasibly lose my child. That the possibility of having my son taken from me could lie in whomever I sought counsel. Sitting in the counselor’s office didn’t help any — waiting alone, wondering what would be said… what would be thought. Finally, after what seemed like hours, my name was called. I was led to another smaller office where I waited once more. I considered running — I considered calling the appointment off under the guise of a “reschedule”. What little common sense I felt I had at the time finally took course and I stayed, anxious and alone. And then someone with the kindest eyes came in. She held my hand. She listened. She let me express every fear I had, no matter how silly or unreal. I talked until I was out of words and cried until my face was sore. And after all was said and done, she hugged me the tightest hug I’d ever been given. She assured me that I was not crazy and that everything would be fine; no one was going to take Gabe and no one wanted to. To this day, I have not experienced the kind of relief that I did in that room.

We continued to meet for quite some time. I was prescribed a strong antidepressant that gradually became less and less. The last day of that prescription, I enrolled in a local college — I had been given two new reasons to live my life fully. I finally had my little boy, even though I was never physically absent… and I’d been given my life back ten-fold. It became my wish from that point to today to educate and spread the word regarding postpartum depression in its every form. I hope you will do the same if you took anything away from this post.

Postpartum depression is real and horrifying. But there is help and hope. For more information on PPD, follow this link. If you or anyone you know is suffering from or could suffer from this problem, please seek help and encouragement.